The Last Gifts of Grace
by CynicalModerate
Summary: Castiel's Grace is diminishing and before long will leave him mortal. Before that happens, he wishes to give Dean a gift.


**A/N:** I was reading a collection of William Blake's work and several lines stuck out to me, and thus inspired this. I hope you like it, let me know.

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><p>"<em>I shall never worthy be  
>To step into Eternity." ~ William Blake, "Broken Love"<em>

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><p>The flutter of wings made Dean looked up and turn slightly, his hand dipping behind the pillow beside him to the gun he kept ready at all times. Despite the fact there was only one person, one creature it could be…well, the Winchesters were on the shit list of too many beings, angelic and demonic, to any chances. But sure enough, as forest green eyes peered into the shadows that nearly swallowed the entrance to the motel room, there was the familiar tan of the long trench coat and the timeless blue eyes peering out with their eerie light and intensity.<p>

"Cas?"

The eyes drifted over to him and focused, the unassuming form stepping into the light to reveal a haggard face and thin form decked in tattered clothing. Blood flecked the lapel of the angel's suit and a deeper, dark shade stained the chest of his white shirt. Dean sat up, alarmed, but a rough wave forced him to remain seated on the bed.

"I am unharmed," came the harsh voice in response, and then with a slight nod added, "…now, at least. My vessel is healed."

"You still look like shit," said Dean, brow creased in unspoken worry as the angel walked around the bed opposite of the man and sat down wearily. The blue gaze dropped down to the upturned hands in his lap, face stoic as a million thoughts raced through his mind, a consciousness that went beyond the confines and limitation of the vessel that housed him. The fingers flexed and relaxed, then turned over again and the gaze raked the back of the hands.

"This form still remains so foreign to me," he said quietly, his voice clear that his mind was still at a great distance.

"Cas…" Dean swung his legs off the bed and hunched over on his knees, staring at the angel as if he could will the being to look at him. "Cas, talk to me."

Slowly gravelly words spilled from the chapped lips. "It would seem that…that I am going to be amongst you in this manner for the foreseeable future."

The worlds held such grief and pain, and Dean realized at that moment just how limiting such flesh must be to a boundless, titanic entity like Castiel. An angel that was limitless in form, unbound by matter as humanity knew it, untouched by the temptations of lust and hunger, sudden subjected to all of that sensation and sin with the simple word of 'yes'. Staring at Castiel, cloaked in the meat of Jimmy Novak, the only way Dean really knew the angel, the Winchester noticed how lost and broken he seemed.

"Are you saying you're-"

"My Grace is severely diminished," said Castiel quickly, a flight of panic crossing his face before it was quashed under a mask of stoicism. "I had enough to get here, with just enough left to-"

He started in surprise when Dean dropped before him and clasped his shoulder, a bewildered look stretching his face oddly in an almost comical fashion. Dean squeezed his shoulder comfortingly; a sympathetic and compassionate look on his face.

"I know…well, I don't know, but this can't be easy for you," he said quietly. "Me and Sammy'll take care of you."

Castiel stared at him for a moment before his face dropped, an angry expression wrinkling his face. "I am…afraid, Dean," he whispered. "I don't care for this emotion."

"Yeah, it's a bitch."

The angel let out a shuddering breath and dropped his chin into his chest and before Dean could look away large, wet tears were dropping into Castiel's lap.

"Cas, come on," said Dean, unsure of what to do. He reached up and brushed a line of salty tear from the angel's cheek, similarly to what he did when Sam was little.

"I am sorry," said Castiel, clearing his throat. "This…reaction came all the sudden and I…I didn't know what to do."

"We're going to take care of you, Cas," Dean said more insistently.

Castiel smiled through a watery gaze and Dean returned it kindly. "Don't worry about the tears, man. Can I do anything for you?"

The angel shook his head. "No, but there is something I would like to do for you," he said. "I would like to use the last of my Grace to gift you something."

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><p>"<em>And mark in every face I meet__  
><em>_Marks of weakness, marks of woe." ~ William Blake, "London"_

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><p>"You're trembling."<p>

"I'm cold."

Dean stared at himself in the mirror, looking over his bare chest and reliving all countless stories it told. Burns from flames natural and unnatural mottle flesh, scars from knifes and claws and blades lines and trail, an occasional mark of a bullet oddly out of place amongst the others. His body was a roadmap of pain and sacrifice, telling a story of the weakness and give of mortality and the despair that such a life brought.

He looked behind himself in the mirror, seeing Castiel's intent gaze studying his back where the marks must be even worse if he recalled correctly. When a warm, hard hand brushed over his cool skin and passed the expanse of flesh between his shoulders he shivered for reasons that he didn't quite understand.

It was more than cold, though.

"So," said Dean, clearing his voice and drawing the angel's gaze in the mirror, "what are you going to do?"

Castiel seemed to think for a moment before answering. "If you'll permit me, I would like to use the last of my Grace to heal your flesh."

Dean blinked. "You'd do that?"

The angel nodded. "I cannot give you a new life," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the muscular back in front of him. "I cannot undo the pain you've suffered for the life you've led. But…"

The soft pads of Castiel's fingers trailed down Dean's back, lightly caressing the dip and seemingly counted the number of scars that marred the flesh. They traveled even lower, hovering just above the waist of Dean's jeans before the man stirred, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Cas," he said lowly, not angrily or harsh, but just pointedly.

The cobalt eyes darted up, his mind broken of its reverie and innocently wrinkled in unspoken question. Their eyes met in the mirror and something passed between them, making Castiel wrinkle his brown even more.

"…in your dreams," he continued, "...in your nightmares…sometimes you picture yourself quite horrifically. Grotesque and…hateful…it is disturbing the self-depreciation you have."

"You said you wouldn't do that anymore," said Dean hardly.

Castiel ignored him, shaking his head. "No one's body should cause that much anguish to themselves. No one should be afraid to look at themselves in the mirror and hate what they see."

Dean swallowed and let his eyes drop back to his torso, all the memories flooding him again so quickly he looked away and closed his eyes.

"You'd waste the last of your Grace on this?" asked Dean coldly. Something pricked at the back of his eyes, angering him at the knot that appeared in his throat. Castiel touched his back again, one hand on his shoulder blade and the other just above the swell of his hip. Dean shivered again at the sudden contact and choked on the emotion it produced on him.

He cursed himself for acting like such a girl.

"I don't consider it a waste," said Castiel, shaking his head. "It's never a waste to help a friend. Will you allow me to do this for you?"

Dean shrugged as if indifferent, smothering the voice that cried 'yes'. "It's your choice, Cas," he said, voice slightly strangled.

"Do you trust me?"

The blond opened his eyes and locked eyes with the man – almost man, after this for sure – in the mirror. He licked his lips nervously and nodded.

"I trusted you enough to come in the bathroom and take off my shift when you asked," said Dean with a less than cocky smirk. "I guess I can extend that a little more."

Castiel nodded and gripped Dean's flesh and little harder, eyes closing in concentration before warmth began to spread from his palms. Dean let out a little gasp as Castiel moved his hands along his torso, spreading the warmth across his skin in a pleasant tingling manner. The hands covered his back and moved around, stroking, caressing, cupping, brushing everywhere, one hand sliding up and across Dean's chest while the other pressed flat against a nasty burn on his stomach. Dean found his back pressed flush against Castiel's chest, acutely aware of the mouth inches from his neck breathing Enochian as he worked and unsure of what to do.

He was confused, but never felt so safe.

He felt good; better than he had in years – better than he ever had.

When Castiel pressed his hand against the handprint on his shoulder he sagged into the powerful arms, dropping his weight against the diminishing angel as the warmth became an intense and pleasant heat that engulfed his entire body. Dean jammed his eyes closed and clenched his hands, chin dropping into his chest as he swallowed the painful sobs that squeezed his chest, the feeling of unworthiness of such sensation and contentment mixing with the relief and appreciation that someone was for once, just for him and without thought of repayment, giving it to him.

The heat slowly began to recede and the two men – two mortal men – sank to the bathroom floor trembling, one from the exertion of the act and the other from overwhelming emotion. Slowly Dean's hands went up and began searching his chest, brushing skin and finding no cut or mark marring the passage of fingertips, a slight laugh escaping his mouth as he finally opened his eyes and looked at himself.

No burns.

No pale lines marking the entrance of blade or claw.

No raised hills of tissue where heated lead had torn through.

Just pure, pristine, beautiful.

Dean came undone, letting the choking sobs loose as he stood up and stared at himself in the mirror. No more memories of horror and pain. A fresh, new beginning.

"I am sorry, Dean."

He turned and looked down at the fallen angel, the man so defeated as he stared at the floor in shame. His voice was one of disappointment and failure, and Dean wipe his eyes before dropping back to floor with him.

"Why are you sorry?"

Castiel shook his head, refusing to look at the man. "I…I must have done something wrong," he said despondently. "I did not mean to upset you. I was trying…I thought it would make you-"

"Idiot," snapped Dean, grabbing the man's shoulders and pulling him into a powerful embrace. Castiel went stiff and attempted to push back so he could look at Dean, but the man pressed him closer and buried his face into his shoulder.

"You beautiful, gentle, innocent idiot," mumbled Dean, rubbing his face in the fabric of Castiel's trench coat. "Thank you. God,_ thank you_."

Slowly Castiel returned the hug as he began to understand, wrapping his arms around the trembling man and feeling the weight settle into his arms. A familiar weight, one he knew intimately from when he pulled it from the Pit, torn and broken under the years of torture and humiliation. Now...not quite restored, not whole yet, but healing.

Castiel nodded to himself, pulling the form tighter into his embrace and smiling at the tears of thankfulness that dampened his shoulder.

Healing.

Good.

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><p>"<em>Love seeketh not Itself to please__  
><em>_Nor for itself hath any care;/__  
><em>_But for another gives its ease/__  
><em>_And builds a Heaven in Hells despair." ~ William Blake, "Garden of Love"_


End file.
